


Pride Goeth

by unicornsandbutane



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crossdressing, Dom/sub Undertones, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Punishment, Spanking, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 11:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3486560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Commission for Daskingu! The Heavy and the Demoman buy a present for the Medic, not knowing that opening the parcel would be opening a can of worms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pride Goeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kingu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kingu/gifts).



> Many thanks to soymilkr on tumblr for beta reading!

His eyes slid over to the package for the umpteenth time, and his pen made a blot on the report he was attempting to write. Cursing, he wiped his pen and resumed scrawling haphazard letterforms across the page. Still, he felt as though the parcel-- a standard box maybe 45 centimetres wide, 60 centimetres long, and 8 centimetres deep-- was pulling him from his work. Merely having his back to it made his neck burn. But, he'd been asked not to open it, so it sat on the Formica countertop, looking ordinary, and pedestrian, and driving him crazy.

 

Nobody else questioned its appearance in his office-slash-operating room. He ordered things to be delivered all the time (new syringes, cotton balls, interesting animal parts, etc.) and since it wasn't leaking, nor giving off any unusual smells, it seemed to most of the team like one of the more benign things in the room. The trouble was, the Medic hadn't ordered it. And, while most of the team simply overlooked it, there were two among them who didn't. Presumably, they knew what was in it. The Medic had absolutely no idea, and he battled the urge to cut it open, daily. That was his modus operandi when he didn't know what was inside something, after all. It was only the combined power of the Heavy's imploring eyes and the Demoman's beseeching smile that the Medic held back.

 

When it arrived, the Heavy had ferried it immediately to the Medic's infirmary, through the double doors to be deposited on the counter. It wasn't a weighty package, and if the Medic lifted it-- only to wipe the counter under it, certainly not to shake the package or otherwise inspect it in any way-- it didn't rattle, or shift at all.

 

"Do not open this," the giant had instructed plainly, and the Demoman, close behind, echoed him.

 

"Don't worry about it," the demolitions expert rejoined. "We'll get to it when we get the chance, arright?"

 

And they'd so assured him, and they'd taken him to bed after, so he very well forgot all about it. Until it greeted him from within his surgery, the very next morning. There it sat, for over a week, tempting him and testing his admittedly frail willpower. What possible reason could they have to make him wait so long to open a parcel? What preparations did they have to make, before its contents were revealed? For god's sake, _what the hell was in it?_

 

He stood from his desk and laid his hands flat on the blotter, craning his head to stare the package down. If he was very careful and utilised all of his surgical precision, could he possibly open it, and then reseal it in such a way that his lovers would never know? He stalked closer to it, and inspected its seams. The brown paper might be a bit of a challenge, since it would be fairly easy to noticeably nick it. Maybe if he held it over a steaming pot, he could weaken the glue enough to--

 

The doors swung open and he jumped into pretending he was merely fetching a cotton ball from one of the glass jars on the countertop. By the timbre of the footfalls, he knew his lovers had come to call, and he turned toward them, smiling brightly and trying not to look too suspicious. He opened a cabinet and reached for a bottle of isopropyl, and doused the swab, only to rub at his nails and fingertips, watching the ink come up under that antiseptic scrub.

 

"Hallo!" He tossed the cotton ball towards the bin and missed by a mile. "How are you both?"

 

The Demoman and the Heavy exchanged a look.

 

"I bet you've been wonderin' what's in that box, there, eh?" The Demoman replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

 

"Box? What box? Oh, you mean _this_ box? I'd forgotten all about it. Why?" He removed his glasses to clean them, and nearly dropped them as he fumbled with the cloth.

 

"Oh, well, if Doktor is busy... No rush. We can go," the Heavy replied, turning as if to leave.

 

"No!" the Medic cried, flinging his hands up. He coughed, and straightened. "I mean. There's no need for that. I'm not _that_ busy, and after all, I always love to see you two. If you're interested in the box, we could open it. Or not, whichever you prefer. Only if you want to." He clasped his hands to keep them still, realised he was still holding his glasses, and settled his freshly smudged spectacles on his nose.

 

"We ought to open it sooner rather than later," the Demoman stated. "After all, it _is_ a present for _you_."

 

"A present? For me?" The Medic felt his pulse quicken. He had an inkling what kind of 'present' it would be.

 

"Da. Is something we hope you will like." The Heavy's eyes flicked between the box and the Medic, and he shifted from foot to foot.

 

"Oh, I'm sure if it's from the two of _you_ , I will love it," the Medic gushed, leaning back against the counter and canting his hips toward his lovers. Each of them shuffled nearer to him, one on either side. The Medic felt like he was practically glowing, with the both of these men beside him, the Heavy placing a hand at the doctor's upper back so his thumb could brush the Medic's neck and the Demoman leaning in close against the counter, fingertips just barely touching the Medic's side.

 

"Well," the Demoman said, fingers playing over stitches in the Medic's vest, "Why don't we open it up, then?"

 

He looked so hopeful, so filled with barely-contained excitement, that the Medic had to grab him by the jaw and drag him into a kiss. The Heavy moved to fit against the Medic's back, wrapping his long, impressive arms around them both and burying his nose in the Medic's hair. He kissed and licked and scraped his teeth across the Medic's ear, and drank in the sounds his mouth could pull from the man: high, fluting moans muffled by the Demoman's lips.

 

The doctor pressed back against the Heavy, and wrapped his arms around the Demoman to pull him close, lifting a leg and grinding against them both. The Heavy's heart stuttered. He could see the box on the counter, over the Medic's shoulder, and couldn't wait to unwrap it and put the Medic's 'present' to good use. If the man liked it. He hoped the Medic liked it. He'd been able to think of little else since the subject came up in a casual conversation with the Demoman, and now that they'd finally decided to put the gift into action, his mouth had gone dry and he felt his pulse in his ears. He felt twinges of arousal gathering, making him just a little bit hard, and the Medic groaned and rubbed his ass against him.

 

"Tha's right," the Demoman murmured, pulling the doctor's shirt out of his trousers to slip a hand up under it and feel across his skin. "Are you _so_ ready for yer present? Because I'll tell yeh, I am _so_ ready to give it to ya." He could feel the Medic's abdominal muscles tensing under his fingers as the man floundered under the combined force of his lovers' affections. The Demoman loved when the doctor got this way: hungry, desperate, and alright, a little submissive. He loved the man when he was fierce, and dominant too-- he loved that battlefield mania, the grin with too many teeth, the giddy bloodlust, and that trim little click of the man's heels when he was particularly pleased with himself. In those times, the Medic seemed almost untouchable, like some avenging god from Roman antiquity. But there was something distinctly taboo about this, about an older man brought to heel, about all that intelligence subjugated and the relinquished power that could eviscerate a man from stones to sternum in a single sweep... that's what had inspired his desire to buy for the man the item in that box. It helped that the Heavy was completely on board. If the giant had any qualms, the Demoman wasn't sure he could go through with it. But the very idea had the Heavy blushing and sweating, and the Demoman knew that if they could pull it off, it would prove to be a very wild night indeed.

 

"Yes, give it to me..." the Medic crooned, rolling his head to the side so the Heavy could teethe at his neck. "I want it."

 

The Demoman dragged himself away and pawed the package closer. Between his two lovers, the Medic turned to face the counter. Practically buzzing with anticipation, he slipped his fingers in under a fold in the brown paper, and lifted it away from the box. The glue pulled up, and the paper crinkled as he, with great care, peeled the wrapping away. The Heavy continued to kiss and tease his neck above his collar, and the Demoman's hands roved his skin under his button-down and vest. When the Medic laid his hands on the bare cardboard, the three of them held a collective breath.

 

“Honigbärchen," the Medic drawled, waiting for the Demoman’s answering _Aye?_ , “Won’t you fetch me a scalpel?” 

 

As soon as the glinting steel was in his hand, the Medic pressed it to a seam, the fragile barrier of packing tape rupturing under the precise edge of that blade. He drew it slowly down the line, and both of his lovers held perfectly still, barely daring to breathe as the plastic split. The only sound in the room was that of the scalpel, running alongside corrugated paper and slicing a thin line through its protective film, until, with a clever twist of the wicked little knife, the flaps of the box popped up— not enough to reveal what was inside, but enough to make the doctor lick his lips, and suck in a trembling breath.

 

With careful turns of his scalpel, the Medic pushed the flaps aside. Only tissue paper, in a pink and white striped pattern, remained to keep him from his prize. He placed the scalpel on the counter with a soft ‘clink’, and slid his hands in under the paper. Whatever was in the box was soft, or it was wrapped in fabric. 

 

Finally, he pulled the tissue up, and laid his eyes on the contents of the box.

 

His smile melted at the sight of the peter pan collar, the faux-pearl buttons, and the trim cut of the garment. For several long seconds, his hands lingered in the box, fingers resting numbly on the white cotton as he tried to piece together what exactly was going on. Was it a mistake? Could this have been the result of a mix-up at the post office, rather than a truly misguided endeavour by his lovers?

 

He looked to his right, and the Demoman bit his lip, straining not to reveal hope nor concern. He looked to his left, and the Heavy’s mouth had formed a thin line, meeting his eyes directly, and not, as the Medic hoped, staring in mute horror at the cleanly pressed nurse outfit folded neatly into the box. 

 

“Get out,” the Medic commanded, his voice a cold rattle. He looked at neither one of them, but instead focused on the cabinets directly in front of him. 

 

“Oh, now _dearheart_ ,” the Demoman pleaded, but the Medic whirled on him, his eyes wide and icy, his face livid. 

 

“ _Don’t you dare_ ,” he hissed, jabbing a finger into the Demoman’s sternum. “After everything I’ve done for you, this— _this_ — is how you, how you, _how dare you?!_ How dare you mock me like this…! This is what you want? You can just take the money you spent on this, this _hideous, contemptible thing_ and buy yourself a _cheap whore!”_ He spun to face the Heavy, drawing himself up to his full height to face off with the giant as best he could. “And _you!_ After everything we’ve been through, _this_ is how you see me? I am nothing but a _joke_ to you? A _toy?_ A _dolly_ for you to dress up? I thought I was involved with _men_ , not tittering children!” In a great swirl of motion, he snatched up the box and flung it across the room, gritting his teeth against the clatter as it hit a stack of metal trays and sent them clanging across the tiles. “Get out, _get out of my sight_ , you stupid, oafish _fools!_ I don’t know why I ever bothered. Clearly, I am just a surrogate for a tawdry call girl, a willing _hole_ for your convenience! I thought I might find some intellect between the two of you but, _oh, how wrong I was!_ ” His hand landed on the scalpel, abandoned on the counter, and he swung it madly at the Heavy and the Demoman both. “Out! Get out of here, and if I _never_ see you darkening my doorway again I shall laugh and laugh!” 

 

The Demoman looked ready to protest, ready to brave the wild slashes of the Medic’s razor-fine blade in order to make his case, but the Heavy’s expression had hardened, and he clapped a broad hand on the Demoman’s shoulder, and steered him out of the room. 

 

At the swinging double doors, he glanced over his shoulder. “You think about what you say,” he growled, and despite himself, the Medic felt the hairs stand up at the base of his neck. Only when the doors swung shut behind them did he lower his blade. 

 

Gingerly, he returned it to its tray, and then collapsed against the countertop, letting the cold seep into his fingers, letting the comforting smell of antiseptic wash over him. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe evenly, to reduce his heart rate and slow the rush of blood in his ears. 

 

_And to think he’d called them lovers!_

 

Well, it was obvious now how they felt about him, how little regard they had for him. He would not be their _easy fuck_ any longer. He wouldn’t be anything. Let them die a hundred thousand times in battle, and it would serve them right. How dare they use him like that; how dare they presume that because he opened his legs to them, it made him… what, a transvestite? Did they think he did these things, being intimate with them, because he wanted to be a woman? And what of the implications of the design they’d chosen? A sleazy little _nurse costume_ , as though that were a representation of the medical profession. Did they think nurses were sex objects? Did they think he deserved to be looked at in that way? How wrong they were.

 

_How wrong he’d been._

 

If he could kill them himself, he would. He would flay them alive, eviscerate them slowly, let their body cavities fill up with blood so they’d know this emptiness, this roiling blackness that seemed to have liquified everything between his heart and his gut, making it turn cold. He probably wouldn’t even enjoy it, and that realisation nearly brought him to his knees. Stumbling backwards, he tripped over his desk chair, toppled it, and ended on the floor, the mess of trays scattered halfway across the room serving only to remind him of yet another failure— a failure to appropriately judge character, a failure to adequately gauge a situation. They’d called him ‘lover’, too, in a range of languages, and like a fool, he’d believed them. 

 

He didn’t want to look at the disarray on the floor. He didn’t want to pick up the pieces. His cold heart shuddered, and he pulled himself shakily to his feet, only to lurch towards his own private quarters. The door felt heavy. It was a herculean effort to turn the lock. How empty his bed seemed without the men who had warmed it for so long, how icy his sheets felt against his skin… What else could he do, though? After what they’d done to him, how could he forgive them? 

 

The look on the Heavy’s face as he left did not suggest that the man would come back and ask for forgiveness. He could be as immovable as stone, impassive as the icy mountains of his homeland. If he wanted to wait, until the Medic grew desperate and went crawling back, he could wait. The Medic slid beneath the duvet and shivered. His heart clenched. He couldn’t. Not after the show he’d made, and not after how they’d treated him. 

 

Days passed. The Pyro and the Soldier were not as effective as his, that is, as the Heavy Weapons Specialist, when given an uber. Or, maybe he just needed more practice. He wasn’t as in sync with them, not as clever at ubering one team mate and backing enemies right into a trap laid by another. 

 

Well, there was certainly a cure for lack of practice. Eventually, things would even out. 

 

The Scout even _thanked_ him for the more frequent heals. The Medic could get used to that. He’d said, “Ever since you started healing me more, Solly ain’t been on my back about dyin’ so much. Guess he’s got bigger fish to fry.” And then he laughed, and added, “See what I did there? _Bigger fish to fry?_ It’s funny because all’a sudden it’s Heavy dyin’ all the time!”

 

Well, that was _almost_ gratitude. 

 

Days turned into a week, with little change. Sometimes, he caught the team’s Demolitions Expert casting him looks across the table, but he fastidiously ignored that. He ignored that, and the cold indifference with which the Heavy Weapons Specialist regarded him. 

 

The man had his _sandwiches_ , and could take care of himself. 

 

Eventually, though, he was forced to pick up the mess. The third time he tripped over a tray, he had to address the issue. Furthermore, he was tired of being questioned about it, any time another team mate had reason to be in his surgery.

 

Each tray clinked together as he set them on top of one another. He felt his fingers sweating into the talc inside his gloves. Just the thought of that box and its wretched contents made his blood boil. Why would they have done this to him? It seemed a question of psychology, which was, admittedly, a branch of medicine in which he had little to no interest. Let the head-shrinkers tiddle with their ‘talking cure’. He preferred to get right to the heart of the matter— with a saw, if need be. 

 

Thus resolved, he snatched the box up from the floor, with an intent to destroy everything to do with it. The quashed cardboard collapsed almost as soon as he laid his hands on it, and the contents spilled out across the floor. The dress, the tissue paper, and a small scrap of red fabric that had been tucked into the box, unnoticed. He resettled his glasses, but couldn’t tell what the red item was until he tugged it out from under the rumpled costume, and held it up. 

 

At first glance, he thought it was a handkerchief, but it turned out to be an impossibly small undergarment, with lace all the way around the… well he couldn’t call it a ‘waist’, because there was no way such a tiny thing could ever actually _reach_ someone’s waist. 

 

‘Is this a swimsuit?’ he thought, but the material was wrong, and he’d never heard of lace on swimwear. ‘Did it come included with… that?’ He dug around in the ruined box, shook out the paper and the dress, but there was no matching brassiere. Turning the knickers this way and that in his hands, he wondered, could they possibly have been made for a _man_? 

 

What a ridiculous idea. He glanced at the clock. It was past one o’clock in the morning. Nobody would be coming to call at this hour. He was so certain that he would look utterly absurd in this stupid underwear, that it almost seemed he’d have to try them on, to prove to himself, and his absent _former_ lovers, that this whole farce was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard. He was sure he’d spill out of the front, and it would look horrible, and tacky, and he would _know_ that he was correct in forcing them out of his life, if they’d intended to truss him up in such laughable nonsense. Had he gone along with it, they would have seen him, _wearing_ the damned thing, and they would never have been able to take him seriously again. He’d never live it down. 

 

Quietly, he ferried the lacy lingerie into his private quarters and shut the door. 

 

Stripping out of his uniform, he felt just as ridiculous as the garment he’d tossed onto his night table. He didn’t _have_ to do this. But, he already had his boots off, and what could it hurt? He’d try them on, see how stupid they were and how right he was, and then he’d be done with it. 

 

His gloves were last to go, and he wiped the talc off his hands with the small towel, hung dutifully on its hook by the door. He turned, and faced the underwear down. He straightened his shoulders, and set his mouth in a scowl, and crossed the room— completely nude, but with the carriage of an advancing cavalry. 

 

Finally, and with pursed lips, he slipped the garment on. 

 

With minor adjustments, the leg holes fit him nigh perfectly, and it didn’t seem too revealing in the back. It was _very_ low-slung in the front, though, and while he didn’t poke out of it, as he’d originally expected, the garment did nothing about the prodigious line of hair that delved down under the lace, and he couldn’t help but think that _wasn’t_ the kind of image he was used to seeing when Lejaby and Jantzen ran ads in a magazine. 

 

His personal mirror was a little high on the wall for this purpose; really only there for fixing his hair and checking that his tie wasn’t crooked. He couldn’t see himself in it without walking across the room, and then, his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be.

 

There was a full-length mirror in the infirmary, though, and he could just fetch it and stand it up in his bedroom, and then he could have a good laugh, take these things off, and possibly burn them. 

 

He peeked out from his quarters, peering around the door, and immediately felt silly for doing so. Who could possibly be lurking at this time of night? Padding silently with his bare feet across the cold tile, he shuffled the mirror from where it lay tucked between a standing cabinet and a wall. Slowly, so as not to make a sound, he drew out the mirror, and immediately, he could see his full reflection in the low light. Well. Maybe it would be quicker to just leave the mirror where it was, rather than carrying it all the way across the room and into the next. 

 

He turned, and looked at himself over his shoulder. 

 

Ridiculous.

 

Why would anybody want to see him like this, in these snug little panties, looking like an old, hairy Brigitte Bardot? Ludicrous. 

 

And _who on earth_ would manufacture such a thing? His package was decidedly _not small,_ an aspect of his physical character that his lovers had commented on in _great_ detail, and yet these slippery little knickers accommodated him quite ably. So somebody must have designed them to do that. 

 

Was the whole… _outfit_ tailored for a man? Why in Heaven’s name would— 

 

Like a thief in the night he scurried over to where the nurse costume sat crumpled on the tile. There were no tags, so he couldn’t discern what kind of company it was that produced such things in _his size_ … if it even _was_ his size. He held it up against his body, trying to estimate. 

 

The shoulders seemed about right, and he imagined that the waist would fit, even if—

 

The door creaked open and he spun to face it, clutching the dress to himself as if to protect his modesty. 

 

The Demoman stood, silhouetted in the incandescent glow from the hallway and casting a long square of light across the room. The Medic was framed by that square, and the Demoman’s jaw worked silently for a few moments before he stepped in and allowed the doors to close behind him.

 

“Well now,” he drawled with that distinctive lilt of his, “Aren’t you a sight to behold…”

Immediately, the Medic’s temper flared. 

 

“How dare you set foot in here?! Not only is it the _middle_ of the _night_ , you _degenerate,_ but I thought I made myself abundantly clear when I said I never wanted to see you in this room again!” 

 

The Demoman advanced on him, unperturbed. “I know you said that. I know. But I was just runnin’ a wee little errand. I was sure you’d be sleepin’ tight by now. Imagine my surprise when I found…” He reached out and pinched the collar of the dress between his thumb and forefinger, “All this.”

 

“ _You—!”_ But the Medic never finished his accusation, because the Demoman lifted his hand from the collar to rest under the Medic’s chin, rubbing the soft skin and smiling fondly at him. 

 

“Don’t let me interrupt you, lad. G’wan and put on that dress. Rather looked like you were itchin’ to, a moment ago.” 

 

“I had no intention of doing anything of the kind!” the Medic insisted.

 

“Oh, but you should. You see, that’s why I was comin’ in here in the first place. I was gonna take that parcel off your hands, return it to sender. But, they have a strict non-returns policy once something’s been worn… and you do look just _lovely_ in that shade of red.” 

 

The Medic fought conflicting urges to either turn on his heel and march back into his quarters or to strangle the Demoman with the dress itself. Was the man trying to guilt him by saying he wouldn’t be getting his money back? As if the Medic gave a single care for that! 

 

“You do,” the man continued, “And I’d just love to see you turn around. Those knickers are just a little sheer, and I can almost see the pretty little cleft of yer arse—”

 

He coughed when the Medic struck him full-force across the face, but he didn’t waver. He took a deep breath, and let it out in a long exhale. He was stone-cold sober, the Medic could tell, not a trace of alcohol on him. 

 

“What was that for, love?” the Demoman asked calmly. The Medic’s mouth twitched with rage. He wanted to plunge his bare hands into the man’s body and rearrange its component parts. 

 

“ _Pretty?!_ ” he snarled, but the Demoman merely shook his head, that unbeatable roguish grin stretching across his face. 

 

“Never meant to offend you, darlin’. You ought to know that by now.” 

 

“Then what did you mean by _this?!_ ” the Medic shook the nurse outfit under the man’s nose, almost spitting, all the hurt and anger coalescing into this one, all-important question. 

 

The Demoman glanced down and _great merciful heavens_ the way that lace dipped low on the older man’s abdomen, tempting his fingers and his tongue, he hardly knew what to say for a moment.

 

“Thought it would look good, with your bloody _fantastic_ legs,” he answered simply, after a too-long pause. 

 

The Medic blinked at him. “With… my legs.” he echoed.

 

“You remember the big fuss you and the big guy made over my kilt, goin’ on about how you liked the way I looked in it an’ ducking yer heads under it?” The Demoman’s grin grew wider and he quirked a suggestive eyebrow. 

 

“That is different,” the Medic grumbled. “That is traditional!” 

 

“Aye, but I wasn’t about to order you any _lederhosen_.” He brushed his thumb along the Medic’s jawline again, and the Medic huffed, but the other man could see the smile hiding behind the man’s features.  “Now c’mon and get yer coat. Wouldn’t be fair to leave th’ big guy out of all this fun, now would it?”

 

The Medic’s brows shot up. “ _What?!_ You can’t be serious!” 

 

“Oh, _deadly_ serious, my love. Now,” he clapped his hands together, and pinned the Medic with his gaze, “I’ll give you a couple’a options. One, you can put the dress on now, and put the coat on over it, _or…_ ” he paused, and the Medic suffered a rare moment of panic. That smile would do him in. “ _Or_ ,” he repeated, “We can take yer _gorgeous_ arse, dressed as it is, over to the Heavy’s room, and we’ll see where the night takes us.” 

 

The Medic balked and the Demoman amended, “You can have yer coat either way; we wouldn’t want your lovely nethers to freeze, now would we?”

 

Either way, the Medic did not relish the prospect of walking down the hallway, bare-legged under his swishing coat, for any night-owls to see. He searched the Demoman’s face, and while the man’s smile was as soft as anything, the Medic recognised a steely resolve. It was what made the man a good mercenary. It was one of the reasons the Medic loved him. 

 

When was the Medic ever afraid of anything? He set his jaw and straightened his back. 

 

“Alright. Wait here and I shall return. Do not move a muscle.” He fought to regain some control, and stalked back to his room, pretending he was dressed in full battle gear, and _not,_ for example, in a tiny scrap of semi-sheer red fabric and nothing else. He felt the Demoman’s gaze burning into his back, and grit his teeth. The door swung closed behind him and he heaved a great sigh. It was pointless to continue fighting, he surmised. It was weakening the team, and their performance was suffering. He could get through this night, if only to prove that he was devoted to his job, and would not allow petty in-fighting to cause a change in his professionalism. Thus decided, he grabbed for his coat, and swung it around his shoulders. 

 

He emerged into the surgery to find the Demoman holding the cast-off nurse outfit, smoothing wrinkles out of its bodice. 

 

“Oh, there y’are, my love. God help me, the thought of you wearin’ that coat of yours with nothin’ but those sweet li’l pants on underneath will do me in!” He waggled his eyebrows and the Medic bit down on the opportunity to say, ‘if only.’

 

He strode from the room and allowed the other man to follow, holding the coat closed like a bathrobe while the Demoman hastily folded the dress. ‘Let’s get this over with,’ he thought, and then repeated in his mind again, as the Demoman shoved the folded garment into his hands, and again and again as a mantra, all the way to the Heavy’s door. He wondered if he should knock or just waltz right in, as the Demoman had seemed so comfortable doing for his infirmary. The Demoman answered for him, reaching around him to turn the handle and open the door for them both. 

 

“After you, darlin’,” he murmured, gesturing perhaps a little obsequiously. The Medic huffed and walked into the dark room, a haughty air held about him like a cape against the cold. 

 

The door clicked as it shut and the Heavy sprung out of bed, his fists outstretched to assail any imagined attacker. The Demoman and the Medic both side-stepped this knee-jerk reaction with practised ease. When no attack came, the Heavy flicked on his bedside lamp, and glanced between the two men standing there in the dim glow. The Medic watched him take in his bare feet, the coat clutched tightly around his person, and his grim countenance— all of these distinctly at odds with the Demoman’s frankly ebullient demeanour. The giant sat up straighter in bed, and seemed to steel himself.

 

“What is this?” he rumbled, voice rough with sleep, and the Medic had to admit (if only privately), the man looked _awful_. There were dark circles under his eyes, and three days’ worth of hair growth on his skull and his jaw. His grip on the bedsheets was white-knuckled. 

 

The Medic looked to the Demoman to answer, but got only raised eyebrows in response. He glowered, and the man moved to stand behind him, shoving the bundle of white fabric into the Medic’s back until he reached behind himself to take it. 

 

“ _Well_ …” the Demoman began. “Why’ncha go on and explain it to the poor dear, won’t you, love? The poor soul’s been completely out of sorts without you.” He spoke so close that the hairs prickled at the base of the Medic’s neck. The Medic prickled along with them, but saw the way the giant’s shoulders hunched defensively. 

 

He swallowed his pride.

 

He swallowed his shame. 

 

He let the coat fall from his shoulders.

 

The Heavy stifled a gasp, and the Medic could not help the flutter in his chest at the obvious hunger in the man’s eyes. He felt ridiculous, and exposed, and woefully unattractive, but that last was being challenged by the raw want radiating off the Heavy, the heavy breath washing over his shoulder from the Demoman behind him. He felt heat rising in his cheeks and cursed himself, and his conflicting emotions. 

 

“Doktor…?” the Heavy ventured, but stopped there. 

 

“Don’t you want to show him the rest, then, my lovely?” the Demoman urged, and the Medic felt his flush deepen. 

 

He had to turn towards his discarded coat, and bend to sort one white garment from another, presenting his rear to the seated Heavy, and coming face to face with his reflection in the Demoman’s mirror-polished boots. He licked his lips and cast his eyes up. 

 

His glasses had slipped down his nose, and so the image was somewhat hazy, but he could tell the Demoman was leering at him, egging him on. He grasped the nurse outfit and stood slowly, knowing the Heavy was watching him, wondering how sheer the fabric really was in the back.

 

It wasn’t as though these men had never seen his body before. They had. But somehow, the addition of a small undergarment had changed everything, and he felt more naked than he ever had, even fully undressed and spread wide and open for them. He fought the shiver that threatened to grip his spine, tamped down on the urge to swallow desperately. ‘Show the rest’ he said? Well, he would show them, alright.

 

With his eyes closed and his back ramrod straight, he shook out the little dress and held it out in front of him. He refused to meet their eyes when he began to unfasten the shiny white buttons, down to the waist. 

 

They weren’t having any of that.

 

The Heavy stood, and seemed to drift over to them, his usually intimidating bearing lost somewhere in a haze. He reached out, and brushed the Medic’s bare shoulder with just the tip of a finger, and the Medic jumped, actually jumped, and then furiously wished he hadn’t. That would only fuel whatever lunatic notion the others had gotten into their heads that had led them to purchase this silly outfit, he thought, would only make him appear weak, and frightened. He whirled on the man, but hesitated at the far-away look, and the quick glance beyond the Medic at the Demoman. Brazenly, the Demoman leaned forward and kissed the Medic’s ear.

 

“Don’t stop now,” he instructed, tone as warm as his breath, “Just pull it on. I’m dyin’, simply _dyin’_ to see what it looks like on ya. The fella in the advert could never hold a candle to _you_.”

 

Because the Medic could not see the Demoman, he looked instead to the Heavy, who only nodded. The Medic bit his lips. He gripped the cotton costume as his hands threatened to shake. 

 

How could they expect him to just… just step into this frivolous little getup? It went against everything he _was_ , everything he _stood for_ , everything he’d _worked so hard_ to achieve! And they wanted him to subject himself to that, just so they could get their jollies? He almost threw the costume down again, but was stopped by the Heavy’s iron grip on his wrist.

 

It wasn’t tight. It wasn’t forceful. Just a grip, just a set of carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges, wrapped around his wrist and reminding him, reminding him of everything they’d been through in the past week, everything they’d been through in the past year. 

 

Unsuccessfully fighting his blush, the Medic lowered the garment, and tentatively, slipped one foot in. Then the other. Then, with whispered words of encouragement from the Demoman behind him, and the stoic, insistent gaze from the Heavy, he pulled it up his calves, over his knees, past his thighs, to where it seemed to naturally sit. He looked to the side again.

 

“Now the arms, darlin’, _please?_ ” the Demoman piped up again, and here, the Medic _did_ swallow audibly. It was all becoming too real. What did they want with this? Where would it go? Certainly, they wouldn’t ask him to get all dressed up like this, just to strip him again. He couldn’t guess at what they wanted. He stopped.

 

“You’ve almost got it, there, love… do you need help?” the Demoman urged, but the Medic twisted between them and took a few panicked steps. He got as far as the bed and turned, wild-eyed, aggressively avoiding his own reflection in the Heavy’s large and ornately framed mirror. This time the Heavy approached. 

 

“Doktor. You call us stupid men, but you are afraid of tiny piece of cloth?” His expression was distant, but the look in the man’s eyes seemed to wash over the Medic like a wave. It engulfed him. 

 

“I am not afraid of _anything!_ ” he protested, nearly spitting with anger. He felt his nails biting into the palms of his hands, heard the creak of his teeth against one another. 

 

“You are afraid we do not love you in the way you want. You are afraid this one garment changes how we feel. This is not problem with us. This is problem with _you_.” He crossed his arms, and his focus narrowed. The Medic felt pinned, arrested by his lover’s shrewd stare. The Demoman remained quiet as the Heavy advanced still closer. “This tiny costume? _Pah!_ ” he pinched a free-floating sleeve between thumb and forefinger before flicking it away again. “It is _nothing_. What is bothering _me_? You are so willing to give up over this. After all the things we have done. I did not know this piece of fabric was stronger than _you_.”

 

The Medic was shocked. Outraged. Nobody spoke to him like that, and already the Demoman had taken a half-step forward, arms raised as if to diffuse the situation with the skill he presented to his bombs, but the Medic paid him no mind.

 

“Is that what you think? You think this _tawdry dress_ has bested me?” He pulled the sleeves on with an unbridled belligerence seldom seen off the field. His fingers, clumsy with emotion, fumbled at the buttons. “Is _this_ what you wanted to see? You wanted to see me laid low, wanted to see me _humiliated_?” 

 

“Oh, that isn’t _fair_ , dearheart—” the Demoman objected, stepping into the fray. “I told you, it weren’t like that, not like that at _all_.” His hands itched to smooth out the rumples in the fabric, set there by the Medic’s ire. He kept the matching hat, rescued from the infirmary floor and tucked into his back pocket, a secret, for now. 

 

The Medic jabbed an accusatory finger in the Demoman’s direction. “Don’t think you can smooth-talk your way out of _this!_ ” The Medic was good and angry again, and it provided decent armour. He couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to be led this far. He fisted his fingers in the front of the costume, poised to give a great tug, but two pairs of hands stopped him. “ _What?_ ” he hissed, baring his teeth, “Don’t want to watch your money go to waste? Well, it is too late for that!” He struggled, but the Heavy and the Demoman held him fast. “ _Let me go, you imbeciles!_ ” he cried, to no avail. Even his strength had failed him. He slumped in their arms, and tried to gather what shreds of self he had left. His anger dissipated, his pride was long gone. What did he have left? 

 

The Heavy and the Demoman closed in on either side of him, sandwiching him between them in that way of which they were _all_ fond. He felt his resolve slipping, his lips wobbling, and told himself, fiercely, internally, _to get ahold of himself_. He couldn’t allow himself to fall any further from grace. How would they ever respect him again? How would he ever respect _himself_ again? The answer was, he couldn’t. Not when he felt his eyes stinging, his cheeks burning hot, feeling weak, and powerless between the others. 

 

_How could they, how could they?_ he repeated to himself, as the room grew misty, and he realised, there was no going back, nothing he could do do stop it, when a quick blink was all it took for the tears to spill over. He held his breath as tears rolled down his red cheeks, and it was all made worse by his lovers shushing and petting him. He didn’t want to be coddled! He wanted— he wanted…! He didn’t know anymore. He sagged, and felt their hands running down his chest, his hips, his bare thighs. Their fingers traced the hem of the skirt and he held his breath against sobs. He swallowed and choked and hated himself.

 

“Is it really that bad?” The Demoman asked, bending in an attempt to meet the doctor’s downcast eyes. “You don’t have to, if, well, you know…” His broad palm smoothed over the Medic’s shoulder. 

 

The Medic shook his head violently, and the Demoman pursed his lips. 

 

“‘No’ you don’t want to, or ‘no’, it’s not that bad?” he asked, and the Medic struggled again.

 

Just knowing that he still wanted them, that he would give in to this to be with them, made it all the worse. Of course they’d make him say it. 

 

The demolitions expert shared a look with the Heavy. 

 

“This is your chance, darlin’. Say ‘no’ now, and all of this stops, I promise.” The Heavy shifted, his huge hand slipping down the Medic’s back and making the doctor burn with humiliating want. “But say ‘ _yes_ ’…” the Demoman nuzzled into the Medic’s hair, breathing him in, “And we won’t stop until you’re cryin’ from pleasure, instead.” 

 

The Medic’s stomach dropped as the Demoman called attention to his tears. His throat constricted and his eyes stung. How was he supposed to respond to that? He hiccuped once and nearly drowned in his shame when the Heavy began to murmur soft assurances in his native Russian, stroking him shoulder to hip like an animal, or like a child. 

 

“So? What’s it gonna be?” the Demoman prompted, and the Medic shivered. 

 

“I…” He couldn’t force the words out. He shook his head against the bitterness in his heart, the insistent voice somewhere within him telling him he was weak, and a coward. 

 

The Heavy stepped back, and after a beat, so did the Demoman. 

 

“Alright,” the Demoman conceded. “If that’s a ‘no’, then we’ll stop.” 

 

“No!” the Medic exclaimed, before clapping his hands over his lips. Eyes wide, frantic, he glanced from one man to the other, waiting for the other shoe to drop. In the long, pregnant silence, he felt sweat prickle at the back of his neck, felt hot and cold spikes shoot through him. 

 

“You do not want us to stop?” the Heavy asked, his voice measured, waiting for clarification. 

 

Miserably, the Medic shook his head again. 

 

“You want we should keep on, then?” the Demoman proposed, eyebrows raised with hope. The Medic’s eyes flicked first to the Heavy, and then to the Demoman, and saw that their faces resembled the ones they wore when he’d first opened the now-infamous box. Same guardedness, same hope. Haltingly, he nodded.

 

Immediately, the Demoman’s face split into that winning grin of his, while the Heavy smiled with quiet approval. The Demoman trailed one hand up the Medic’s front, fingers skipping over the buttons playfully. 

 

“Oh, I’m _so_ glad, love. Can’t wait. But, I’ve got one more thing for you, if you’ll have it…”

 

The Medic’s eyes widened… he wasn’t sure how many more of the Demoman’s ‘surprises’ he could take. Slowly, the man reached into his back pocket, and produced a slightly crushed nurse’s cap, the red cross in the centre like the gem in a crown. It was starched well enough that with a little fiddling, it popped back to its intended shape. 

 

The Medic took it in his hands, his guts trembling, and inspected it. A real nurse would keep her cap in place by the clever use of hair pins, but this one was fitted with a small band of elastic. Slowly, he raised the cap to perch it atop his head, and stretched the elastic to rest at the base of his skull. He blinked owlishly at the others, and waited for what may come.

 

With a quick motion that nearly made the Medic shout, the Demoman swooped in for a kiss. The Medic felt light-headed. The kiss was long, and lingering, and made him ache, and when he pulled the Demoman’s lower lip between his teeth, the rumbling growl he got in response made his blood burn in his veins. He arched his back, hips seeking the Heavy behind him, who crowded in close and wrapped arms around his waist. The Heavy’s stubble against his neck made him shiver, but also reminded him— the Heavy _always_ shaved. He was exactingly meticulous about it. He would shave before bed, and again in the morning, to keep his jaw and his scalp equally smooth. What would shake him from one of his most steadfast habits?

 

Engaged with this thought, he almost forgot what he was wearing, until the Heavy’s hand brushed up his front, and the pearl buttons pressed into his sternum through the white fabric. He stilled. 

 

“Calm down, Doktor,” the Heavy commanded, voice just above a whisper, and the Medic wanted to fight it, wanted to rebel against the order, but the Demoman’s broad hands slipped down the Medic’s hips and gripped his ass and he gasped instead. He bit his own lips hard, trying to swallow mortification, that so easy, so simple an act could have such an obvious effect on him. He was older than both of them! For God’s sake, he should have a better handle on himself!

 

The Demoman’s fingers rucked up the costume’s skirt, and his fingertips traced over the red lace that framed his ass, courtesy of those ridiculous knickers. Resolute, the Medic pushed his face into the Demoman’s shoulder, and tried to control his blush, or the tremble he felt growing in his knees. It was almost worse when the Demoman smoothed the dress over his backside again, and patted it lovingly. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

 

The Heavy’s hands were soothing, almost, stroking up and down his chest in long, slow passes. The fabric slid against his nipples as the Heavy’s hand passed, and he hitched his breath, mouth buried against the Demoman’s neck, feeling the Heavy’s heat when he moved even closer. 

 

“You see?” the Heavy murmured into the Medic’s hair, “Little dress is not so bad. Looks very nice on you.” 

 

What could the Medic say to that? What could he do? Face burning, he turned slightly so see the Heavy as best he could over his own shoulder. 

 

“It doesn’t,” he insisted quietly. 

 

“Sure it does,” the Demoman rejoined. “Just as I expected, your legs look fantastic. And that’s not to speak of your arse. Have a look in this lovely full-length mirror, here.” 

 

He and the Heavy turned the Medic together, and faced him towards one of the few large bits of furniture the Heavy personally shipped from base to base. The frame was gold, and somewhat baroque in its aesthetic, and the mirror itself sported a bit of spotting due to age in one corner. It may indeed have been twice the Medic’s age, and it seemed rather an odd thing to carry hither and yon, but it was large enough that the Heavy could look himself over all at once, and that made it a valuable possession. The Medic’s nails bit into his palms as his lovers held him, forced him to look at himself— the cap on his head, the rounded collar, the shiny white buttons and the overly short skirt (much shorter than an _actual_ nurse would wear, mind you)— all juxtaposed within that grandiose frame, made his stomach quail. Worse, he could see his blush had not dissipated. 

 

“This is horrible,” he protested. The hair on his legs, the silver at his temples… neither of these things particularly contributed to the picture of an attractive nurse, he thought. He didn’t understand this, not one bit.

 

“I disagree,” the Heavy said, and the Medic followed the giant’s eyes. His gaze was fixed somewhere on the Medic’s torso, where the fabric pulled a little tight across his chest. “And also I have seen what is underneath. Very sexy. Doktor always looks good, no matter what he wears.”

 

“But _this_ —!” the Medic sputtered, but the Demoman cut him off.

 

“Maybe you’re just not looking hard enough,” the Demoman persisted, gently tugging the Medic closer to the mirror. “C’mon and _look_ ,” he urged, beckoning, his eye glinting and his smile shining. 

 

The Medic’s feet felt like lead as he scuffled across the floor. The Demoman was not satisfied until he was close enough to reach out and touch the mirror. 

 

“Now do you see?” he crooned, standing beside the Medic, cheek to cheek as if that would help the Medic see what he apparently did. “It’s not _so_ different from what you usually wear, except that it stops just _here_ …” He fingered the hem of the skirt again. “You’re always runnin’ around after all of us, holdin’ us together, and it’s made your thighs glorious, love. And this skirt, the way it hangs off yer arse…”

 

“That is nothing. Look at the way the dress is too small for your shoulders, the way it clings to your waist. Doktor could flex and the buttons would shoot off like bullets,” the Heavy added, fingers playing under the little white collar.

 

“Yes, that is true… But also, look at these wee capped sleeves, straining to keep his biceps in. And the way the skirt pulls across the gap between his legs. It’s awful inviting, don’t you think?” 

 

“Hmm, yes.” the Heavy agreed, thoughtfully. “But what about this curve of his back? This dress is much tighter than any of Doktor’s other clothes.”

 

“And the slope of his stomach?”

 

“The collar shows more throat than his uniform.”

 

“The shape of his hips.”

 

“Fabric pulling over his ribs.”

 

“ _STOP!_ ” The Medic broke from their hold and stumbled forward, catching himself against the frame of the mirror. He was greeted by his own reflection, with puffy eyes and red cheeks, hair a mess and glasses slipping, wearing this tacky getup, and _worse still_ , it rode up in the back when he fell forward, and he could see his lovers leaning to see his ass peeking out under the hem of the skirt, wrapped in those silly lacy panties. He almost wanted to cry again.

 

 

“Aw, but darlin’, you— You usually _like_ a compliment or two…” His hand, large and callused, stroked over the Medic’s ass. 

 

In the mirror, the Medic could see the Heavy nodding solemnly in agreement. “Is nothing to make fuss,” he said. “Doktor is very handsome. Why should we not say so?” 

 

“Not like _this_ , I am not!” the Medic hissed, still gripping the mirror by its edge, but his lovers only petted him more. It made him feel patronised, and it made him feel sick, and it made the heat sting behind his eyes again. Again, a look passed between the other two, and the Demoman straightened. 

 

“That’s _awfully_ contrary of you, my dear. And you haven’t treated us _particularly_ well, of late. _This_ one,” and he indicated the Heavy with a crook of his thumb, “has been up at all hours of the night worryin’ about it, you know. And it’s really done a number on our collaboratin’ as a team. What do you think about that?”

 

The Medic’s hackles rose and his lip curled. “You dare to blame _me—_ ” and he nearly straightened to face them down, but he was stopped by the Heavy’s hand between his shoulder blades. 

 

“We will forgive you,” the giant rumbled, meeting the Medic’s eyes in the mirror. “If you will agree to a punishment.” 

 

“That’s hardly a bargain,” the Medic complained. “If I don’t agree, what happens? You _don’t_ forgive me, and everything we have is over? Is that it? Don’t you think _this—_ ” he gestured to his state of dress with his chin, “is quite enough of a p— I mean, enough of this _nonsense_?”

 

“Did not mean for it to sound this way,” the Heavy explained. “I do not wish to— eh,” he groped for words, and looked to the Demoman to fill in where his English was lacking. 

 

“I think what he means is, we wouldn’t want to _force_ you, pet. That’s why you’d have to _agree_ to it, mind.” 

 

“Or else you won’t ‘forgive’ me?” the Medic spat, seething. 

 

“No, no, we’ll forgive you. It’s just that, well…” a sly look crossed the Demoman’s face, and his eye shifted to include the Heavy in whatever he was planning. “I think you might _enjoy_ the punishment, darlin’.”

 

“ _WHAT—!_ ” he began, but the Heavy stroked down his back, and his shoulders slumped. In his heart of hearts, he just wanted everything to go back to normal, terrible as it was. He knew it made him a traitor to his pride, and it made hot tears of shame well up again. When he saw his reflection, eyes shining and wet behind his glasses, his misery compounded and he hung his head. He couldn’t face himself like this.

 

“What about,” the Demoman began, gentle as can be, “What about, just a little spanking?”

 

“Is that what you want from me?” the Medic replied wretchedly. Tears rolled into his glasses, and then fell to the floor. 

 

“Oh, don’t _cry_ , love,” the Demoman soothed, but that only made it worse.

 

“ _Don’t you condescend to me!_ ” The Medic tried for fierce, but could not control his voice. His shoulders shook and his face ached with the effort of keeping himself together. “If you want to, to, to _spank me_ , then do it, for god’s sake! I’m wearing your stupid dress and these _absurd_ undergarments, so just— just…!” His voice broke and he cut himself off, holding his breath against sobs. 

 

“Doktor…” the Heavy faltered, fingers rubbing the back of the Medic’s neck. “Is alright, we don’t have to—”

 

“ _Do it_ , I tell you!” the Medic demanded, choking on his tears. “If that is what it will take, then _do it!_ ”

 

Hesitantly, the Heavy raised his hand, and brought it down on the Medic’s ass, where the skirt rode up and exposed his frilly panties. The Medic, braced against the mirror, shifted slightly, but gave no further reaction, so the Heavy lifted his hand again, and smacked the Medic’s ass once more. The Medic coughed, and spread his feet a little, but his tears continued. With a quick glance to the Demoman, the Heavy paused. “Doktor,” he said, brow creased, but the Medic reached behind himself and hiked the skirt up higher. 

 

“I know you are stronger than _that_ ,” he mocked, shattered though his voice was, “And I won’t have you _coddling_ me!” 

 

The Heavy pulled back and brought his hand down again, a little harder this time, and the Medic hiccuped, and the Heavy tried to think through all the hurt he’d felt throughout the week, all the anger and frustration, but when he looked at the Medic with his ass turning red under the brighter red knickers, skirt hiked up and shoulders jittering with sobs, he couldn’t bring himself to take it out on the man. 

 

“ _Are you giving up?!_ ” the Medic cried. “How _dare_ you—!” But as the Heavy pulled away, the Demoman moved in. 

 

“Don’t you worry, lovely, I’ll take care o’ you,” he promised, and then his hand came down hard on the Medic’s ass, making him suck in a harsh breath that left him coughing after. The Demoman did not relent. He counted the strokes in his head and watched first the right cheek and then the left come up a nice, vivid pink. Soon, the Medic was gasping, and the Demoman whistled.

 

“You _are_ a sight, like this, you know?” he commented blithely. His hand continued to fall against the Medic’s stinging ass. “Tell you what, you’re bein’ so good, next time, you can do this to me, if yeh want. I’ll even wear some frilly knickers. How’d you like that?”

 

The Medic only sobbed harder, but he lifted his hips higher, and the Heavy peeked beneath him to see, the Medic had begun to get hard in those silky little panties. The sight sent heat straight into his gut. 

 

The slaps against the Medic’s ass echoed in the Heavy’s small bedroom, and he stood back for a moment to appreciate the scene in its entirety. The Demoman, keeping up a steady rhythm and grinning like a loon; the Medic with his legs spread and looking so debauched in that little dress, the skirt bunched up to his waist and his face wet and bright; all of it reflected in the ornate mirror. It was perfect, and beautiful. Slowly, the Medic lifted his head, and met his eyes in the glass. His eyes shone with tears and his face was blotchy and even as his nose ran, he was, perhaps, the most lovely creature the Heavy had ever seen. The Medic beckoned him with a tilt of his chin. 

 

Shifting nearer to the Medic, the Heavy reached out and caressed the Medic’s head, fingers tracing his ear and smoothing his hair under the cap. He brushed tears away as they continued to fall, while the Demoman continued to spank  the man. Small sounds were beginning to rise in the doctor’s throat, and the Heavy swallowed. 

 

“How ya doin’ there, love?” the Demoman asked, stopping to just stroke the Medic’s ass, hot with blood, soothe some of the burn away. 

 

After a beat, the Medic nodded. Through the tears and the shame, even if it pained him to admit it, he was hard, and wanting. Why did this arouse him? He knew it shouldn’t; he knew this was humiliating and depraved. But, his cock was straining in his tiny little knickers, and the way the Heavy was looking at him was making his blood boil and his cock ache. 

 

“Hah,” he panted, swallowing against tears he could not seem to stop, “Honigbärchen?” 

 

The Demoman’s gaze met his. 

 

“Would you, ah, touch me more?” the Medic asked, and with his eyes red and shining, he was very hard to refuse. 

 

“Of course, darlin’, of course.” 

 

He knelt behind the Medic and allowed his hands to slide up under the red lace, fingers smoothing over the doctor’s ass, skin to skin. Shuddering the Medic canted his hips up into the touch. The Heavy reached under him and teased his fingers along the curve of the Medic’s abdomen— just the slightest slip of skin was visible under the bunched skirt, and it was warm and soft under his fingers, and decorated with that prominent trail of hair between the doctor’s navel and his cock that the Heavy always found so sublime and irresistible. The doctor keened at the touch, as it stirred memories and lust within him, and his cry was interrupted by a racking sob. 

 

He couldn’t stop. The tears went unabated down his creeks, even as his cock twitched with the proximity of the Heavy’s fingers, the enticing ministrations from the Demoman’s hands. With his grip white-knuckled on the mirror, he stared himself down. 

 

“I am sorry,” he said, quietly, and the words were acid in his throat. The Heavy and the Demoman paused in shock. To their shared amazement, the doctor continued: “I am sorry I called you both stupid. It isn’t true. I simply—” he sniffled, hiccupped, blinked fresh tears out of his eyes, “I don’t understand why you want this from me. Perhaps,” a coughing sob shook his shoulders, and his lovers felt it where their hands met his skin, “Perhaps that makes _me_ the stupid one.” 

 

Instantly, they were upon him, pressing their faces into whatever parts of his body they could reach, wrapping arms around him and muttering assurances. It felt as though they were shushing him like a squalling child, but he couldn’t muster any anger, couldn’t protest, couldn’t fight. If not for his grip on the heavy mirror, and their arms holding him up, he would have fallen. He felt weak. He felt defeated. He felt his cock leaking into the lacy panties, betraying him. He shook, and he cried.

 

The Demoman’s fingers hooked into the lace waistband, inching the knickers down impossibly slowly, just in case the Medic wanted to object. He didn’t. He only moaned and writhed, trying and failing to get the garment off over his hips faster. When they were at his mid-thigh, stretched between his spread legs, he looked over his shoulder at the Demoman.

 

“Spank me again,” he pleaded. He bit down on his lips so they wouldn’t tremble.

 

“What’s that?” The Demoman couldn’t believe his ears. First an apology, an actual, verbal apology, and now this? He looked from the Medic to the Heavy, and back again. The Heavy could only shrug, and the Medic looked desperate. 

 

“Spank me again,” he repeated, coughing and choking, sobs in his throat. “I— _please_. I deserve it.”

 

“What? No…” the Heavy protested, unsure what had gotten into the Medic. He barely sounded like himself, strangled by tears. 

 

“ _Please!_ ” he begged, his head lolling on his shoulders. “Please, I can’t, I need to—”

 

He couldn’t seem to articulate the words. Something deep had cracked within him, and now everything had changed. He couldn’t explain it, and that alone shook him at his foundation. He had trampled all over the laws of man and the laws of nature, all in the name of discovery, but this was unknown to him. What could he do? 

 

“Why do you say this?” the Heavy asked, but the Medic only shook his head and lifted his hips insistently.

 

The Demoman, still standing behind, trailed a finger down the taut curve of the Medic’s ass. 

 

“Do you think,” he proffered lightly, “it would make you feel better?” He had the distinct suspicion he knew what this was about. There was only the briefest pause before the Medic nodded. 

 

Even though the Heavy looked perturbed at the prospect, the Demoman pulled his hand back and delivered a few more swats to the Medic’s ass. The Medic gasped and moaned after each one. The Heavy stroked the Medic’s back. 

 

“Kuschelbärchen…” the Medic whined, but as he did not elaborate, the Heavy had to lean in. 

 

“Yes, Doktor?” 

 

When the Medic turned, his eyes were glazed, his mouth hung open, and his face was a mess of sweat and tears. His body jolted which each of the Demoman’s strikes against his flesh. 

 

“Won’t you punish me?” 

 

The Heavy did not know how to respond. After a moment’s hesitation, he bade the Demoman to move from behind the Medic, so he could take up his position. 

 

“Please, _please_ ,” the words seemed as unbidden as the tears dripping off the Medic’s chin. “I _need_ it.” The Heavy directed the Demoman to stand beside the Medic, and to hold his hands down, keeping the doctor bent at the waist and clutching the mirror, presenting his ass and thighs. When he was sure the man was secure, he brushed his right index fingernail from the back of the Medic’s thigh, up over his ass, and up his back. 

 

The Medic made a high-pitched sound in response, but nothing more, so the Heavy pushed his hands up under the fabric of the nurse costume, and dragged his fingers down the Medic’s ribs, not hard enough to scratch, just barely enough to feel it. The Medic bucked against the Demoman’s hold, squirming, and panting. The Heavy dug his fingers into the Medic’s upper stomach, and pinched his ribs and teased the creases of his thighs. He kneeled, and blew cold air over the Medic’s balls, and skittered his fingers up the doctor’s abdomen, until the man was thrashing and nearly screaming with laughter. 

 

“It tickles!” he howled. “I can’t, I can’t—!” but he remained hard and dripping, and did not say to stop. “Oh, oh no…” His whole body was flushed, from the force of his tears or from the strength of his laughter, from the Demoman’s spanks to the Heavy’s tickling. His knees wobbled. “Oh, bitte, _bitte_ , I’m, I— I don’t know, oh, _please_!” 

 

With a few fond pats to the Medic’s reddened ass, the Heavy took pity, and sat back.

 

“No!” the Medic wailed, sobbing with renewed vigour. “Don’t stop, please, _touch me_!” 

 

“You _want_ to be tickled?” the Demoman ventured, stroking the Medic’s knuckles with his thumbs. 

 

“I want anything!” the Medic persisted. “Please, if you’ll have me, I want—” he stilled, biting his lips and licking tears out of the corners of his mouth.

 

“Yes?” the Heavy prompted, his hands waiting on the Medic’s hips.

 

“Will one of you fuck me?” He blinked up at the Demoman, and sought the Heavy’s eyes in the mirror. “Please, I… do you want me to suck you?” He glanced between them, and licked his lips. The Heavy and the Demoman looked at each other. The Demoman’s eye flicked to the mirror and back. The Heavy’s face heated, and his grip tightened on the Medic’s hips. 

 

“We’re gonna fuck you and suck you in front of this mirror, darlin’, and _you_ ,” he tucked his finger under the Medic’s chin and stroked his jaw lovingly, “ _You_ , are going to watch your pretty face as it happens.”

 

The Medic dipped his head and kissed the pad of the Demoman’s thumb. Without a word, the Heavy went rummaging in his bedside drawer for their lubricant, and when he returned, there was a brief gesture shared between himself and the Demoman, a silent discussion of positions and roles. Easily, the Heavy passed the jar to the Demoman, and then went to situate himself on the floor, beneath the Medic and between his spread legs. It was a tight fit for a man of his height, but braced on his elbows, he could just about make it. The Demoman slotted himself behind the Medic and began warming Vaseline in his fingers. Already, the Medic was practically vibrating, feeling the Heavy’s breath on his cock, and watching the Demoman in the mirror. 

 

When the Demoman’s first finger began rubbing into the Medic, the doctor jumped, and bumped his cock against the Heavy’s lips. The Heavy let his jaw go slack, and as the Demoman began prepping and stretching the Medic, the Medic began bucking into his fingers, inadvertently thrusting in and out of the Heavy’s mouth. He bit down on a strangled sound, but jolted his hips more rapidly; first, back onto the Demoman’s questing fingers, and second, across the Heavy’s waiting tongue. The Heavy groaned. He had missed this, the taste of the Medic, the feel of his cock breaching his lips, the sounds of his pleasure spilling over. He’d missed the closeness, and the way the Medic’s thighs would twitch, his stomach clench, his toes curl and his hips stutter. 

 

He couldn’t see it— his whole field of vision was filled with the Medic’s abdomen pressing into his brow as he sucked and licked— but he knew, the Medic was biting his lips, and flexing his fingers, and fighting to keep his eyes open. He always wanted to see what his lovers did to him. And now, before the mirror, he could. 

 

The Demoman added a running commentary to the sounds of the Heavy’s efforts and the Medic’s desperate cries.

 

“That’s two fingers, now, love,” he stated, cheerfully, “Will you take another?” 

 

“ _Oh!_ ” the Medic barked, his head thrown back and his throat bared to the mirror, “Ja!” 

 

The doctor’s hips stuttered, slung between two points of pleasure. The Heavy couldn’t apply the best of his skill in the position, but it didn’t seem to matter. He pressed his tongue to the underside of the Medic’s cock as it retreated, and got a sobbing moan from the man in response. 

 

“Lift your hips a little, sweetness,” the Demoman instructed softly, and when the doctor complied, the Heavy could move a little more freely, and began to bob his head. He felt the full-body shiver that ran through the Medic, and the short, broken cry that bubbled up in its wake. He gripped himself through his pyjama pants, staving off the hunger for a moment or two, while the Demoman practically _purred_ that the doctor was taking three fingers so well, so easy, that his slutty ass _loved_ to be filled, that it was pulling him in. “Would you like another finger?” he asked, indulgently, and the Medic twisted between them.

 

“Yes, yes, _more_ ,” he pleaded, rocking his body back and forth. 

 

“Okay, then, love. Just you relax, now, and you’ll have it.” 

 

With a dollop more Vaseline, the Demoman had four fingers flexing inside the Medic, feeling out his inner walls and stretching him wide. He crooked his fingers and dragged them, so the Medic would _really_ feel it, and the man almost screamed, leaking onto the Heavy’s tongue, and shaking. 

 

“ _Honigbärchen…_ ” The word was hauled up out of his throat like a well-bucket on a rusty pulley. “ _Please_ ,” he entreated, seeking the Demoman’s gaze in their reflection.

 

“What do you need, pet? Just say it, and it’s yours,” the Demoman promised in return, smiling benevolently, but never erring in this punishing ingress, the slow, exquisite pull as he slid out again. 

 

“Your cock, _please_ , I need—!” The Medic coughed, and his voice broke, and another tear splattered on the floor. “Fuck me, fuck my ass, please!” 

 

The Heavy’s ears burned, listening to the Medic beg, even through tears. The doctor was usually so in-control, but _this_ … He squeezed his cock again as it gave a needy throb. 

 

“Of course, my lovely,” the Demoman replied, then added, teasingly: “Since you asked so nicely.” 

 

The Medic sagged when the Demoman withdrew his fingers, but straightened up again when he felt the Demoman nudging his cock against him, his hips lifting almost imperceptibly in invitation. The Heavy felt it, and felt the Medic’s cock twitching in his mouth, and moaned. The Medic and the Demoman both seemed to echo him, as the demolitions expert began to push in. 

 

“ _Oh_ , ach, ah, _yes!_ ” the Medic shouted, bracing himself against the mirror to force himself back. The Heavy slurped at him, and made the Medic’s sounds rise in pitch and volume. He could see the Demoman’s plain cotton sweats, the ones he wore for sleeping, slung low across his thighs as he began to draw back, and then, gripping the Medic’s hips, angled in again. The Medic grunted, and his arms and legs quaked, but he thrust himself backwards to meet the Demoman’s hips. The Demoman pushed him forward again, and into the Heavy’s mouth, and they picked up a rhythm, that way. 

 

“Look up, darlin’,” the Demoman urged, and watched the Medic muzzily lift his head. 

 

The doctor blinked, watery-eyed, at his own reflection, and took in his reddened cheeks, his tear-streaked face, his wide-blown pupils, and the drool clinging to his lip as he panted, slightly fogging the glass. His pupils were so dilated, they fairly swallowed his irises, making him appear doe-eyed, even doll-like. He shuddered, and another tear rolled down his cheek, hit his off-kilter glasses, and trailed into the corner of his mouth, where he licked at it without a thought. 

 

“Wish you could see this from where you are, Big Guy,” the Demoman went on, addressing the Heavy who remained crouched beneath the Medic, sucking him down. “He’s bloody gorgeous. Tell him what you see, sweetheart, so he knows how beautiful y’are.” 

 

Voice wavering, the Medic tried. “My face is, that is—” he faltered, but after a sharp thrust from the Demoman, he swallowed and began again. “My face is very red, very hot. I can feel it. My eyes, too, from the,” he hesitated. The Heavy licked him sympathetically, and the Medic moaned, loud and long. “The, the _crying_ —!” he admitted, choking back a sob. “And— And my glasses are crooked. And my pupils very large. And my face is wet.” He groaned and arched his back. “What else is there to say?” 

 

The Demoman sped his thrusts, and the Heavy struggled to keep up, licking and sucking fit to drive the Medic wild. 

 

“ _Kuschelbärchen!_ ” the doctor wailed, “It is too much, I can’t, please, it is too— _Oh!_ ” His knees buckled inward, and the Heavy pulled off, allowing the Medic to catch his breath. He reached up, and as the Medic’s hips were driven forward, his cock passed over two of the Heavy’s broad fingers. It was just the barest touch at his underside, but the Medic shouted, wordless exclamations that shook him to his core. 

 

“Are you close, dear heart? Will you come soon?” the demolitions expert crooned, petting down the Medic’s flank. 

 

Unthinking, the Medic nodded, sweat dripping from his brow. He felt deliciously stretched, after so long without his lovers’ touch, he felt wrung out, after the emotional wreckage of the night. He felt, so keenly, the Demoman’s cock, filling him and retreating, pressing along his most sensitive, most secret pathways and making spots dance before his eyes. He felt the Heavy’s heat beneath him, his breath sensitising his very pores, and the gentleness of his touch. His gut tightened. 

 

“Not yet,” he begged, “Please, help me, not yet—!” And his voice was so sharp, so urgent, that the Heavy wrapped thumb and forefinger around the doctor’s base, and forestalled his orgasm. The Medic sighed, his shoulders relaxing, his body bowed between the mirror and the Demoman’s grip. His head lolled forward, and he breathed deep. 

 

“Did you want to wait?” the Demoman asked, voice strained. “You wanted to wait for us?” 

 

Again, the Medic nodded wordlessly. 

 

“Well, it won’t be long now,” came the rasping reply. “That skirt pushed up over your arse is a lovely view, and I have to tell yeh, I loved the way you hiked it up for us to spank you. It’s made all the better by your face in that mirror. Here, let me see your eyes, my love,” he implored, and when the Medic glanced up, and the Demoman fixed his eye on the Medic’s wide, hungry stare, he grunted, and pushed himself as deep as he could go, bowing over the doctor’s back as he came inside him. The Medic moaned along with it, clenching down as he felt the hot splashes within him, and drew it out as long as he could. 

 

When the Demoman finally relaxed and slowly, regretfully, pulled out, he gave the Medic a tired smile in the mirror. 

 

“You’re a wonder at that, love. The way you tighten yer arse up at the end like that, just makes it go on forever.” He smoothed his palm over the Medic’s ass, and soothed the gooseflesh that gathered there. The Heavy, slowly, extricated himself from beneath the Medic, and the Medic started slightly. 

 

“Mein Kuschelbär,” he intoned. “Would you like…?” The Heavy, rolling his shoulders, paused to turn and meet the Medic’s eyes in the glass. “Will you fuck me, as well?” 

 

The Heavy stood so quickly his head swam. “You want more, Doktor?” 

 

Biting his lip, the Medic looked over his shoulder, pinning the Heavy with his gaze. “My cock is _aching_. I want to come while you are in me. And I want you to come inside me as well, and fill me up, just as he has done—” his eyes shifted briefly to the Demoman, staggering numbly to recline on the bed, “and I want to feel stretched and sore and used. Please, mein Liebling, he has begun it, won’t you finish?” 

 

Scrabbling for the Vaseline, the Heavy struggled out of his pyjamas and slicked his cock. Just the slightest touch and his erection jumped in his hand. The sight of the Medic, the sound and the lingering taste of him, were nearly too much. 

 

He slipped in easily, well-stretched and slick as the doctor was already, and sighed at the tight heat around him. He felt the Medic fluttering his muscles consciously, and sucked in a breath. 

 

“Doktor is too good—!” he choked, closing his eyes in desperation. Even in his mind’s eye, he could not escape the image of the Medic, bent over with his ass reddened and those unbelievable panties pulled down his thighs, his back bowed to meet the Heavy’s hips, his cock swollen, and dark, and heavy between his legs, and his face, a wild mess in the mirror. He swallowed, and began to pull back, only to ram back in full-force. The Medic yelped, and the Heavy growled, willing his eyes open so as not to miss any twitch, any twist, any errant motion the Medic may undertake, as the Heavy fucked into him, brutal, and needy. 

 

“ _Ahh, yes!_ ” the Medic cried, his eyes rolling back. “Yes, _fuck me!_ ” 

 

The Heavy pushed his hand up under the dress and dragged his nails down the Medic’s ribs. The man shuddered, and thrust back against him. Distantly, the Heavy heard the Demoman whistle in appreciation from the bed. 

 

“More, _please_ , more!” the Medic screamed. With one hand braced on the Medic’s hip, the Heavy leaned forward, grinding deep and placing his hand on the back of the Medic’s neck. The Medic arched and whined, and, gently as he could, the Heavy squeezed, tightening his hand on either side of the Medic’s throat until the doctor gagged, and moaned, voice ragged from the pressure. The Medic’s eyes clenched shut, spilling unshed tears, and he came, howling and cursing and trashing. 

 

His come splashed against the mirror, and fell in streaks across the floor. Mouth stretched wide, he screamed, insensate, and pressed his face into the glass. The Heavy fucked him through it, until, brokenly, the Medic whispered, “Bitte,” and turned just slightly to stare the Heavy down with one large, glassy eye. 

 

That was it. The Heavy came, gripping the Medic’s hips so tightly he knew they would bruise, and jolting into him again and again as it seemed to go on forever. His vision went black, and his hearing became muffled by a dull roar, as he rode it out, each successive thrust sharper than the last until the last one shook the mirror where it leaned against the wall, and made the Medic mutter, “ _Ungh, Scheiße!_ ” under his breath. 

 

At great length, the Heavy’s body sagged, and he stumbled away from the Medic’s worn body. He collapsed into his desk chair, and heaved a great sigh. Fingers tripping over the mirror’s carved scrolls and florets, the Medic sank to his knees and pressed the overheated length of his torso into the cool glass, letting the cold seep in through the thin costume. His breath puffed against the glass, and was perhaps the loudest thing in the room. 

 

It was a long, quiet moment before anybody said anything. The Demoman lazed on the bed, the Heavy breathed deep in the chair, and the Medic tried desperately to regulate his heartbeat. Finally, he pulled himself away from the mirror, and pulled the lace panties up his legs again, and settled them over his ass, even as his two lovers’ release dripped slowly out of him. 

 

“You keepin’ those on?” the Demoman drawled, rolling to face the other two more completely. 

 

“I might,” the Medic answered noncommittally, though he aimed a wicked grin in the Demoman’s direction. He began to unbutton the costume, and shimmied out of it, standing when it fell to the floor and stretching luxuriantly. “ _Well_ ,” he said, turning first to the Heavy, then back to the Demoman, “What do you say? Am I forgiven?”

 

Silently, a look passed between the Demoman and the Heavy, and the demolitions expert pursed his lips. “I dunno, sweetness…” he replied slowly. “You were an awful pill about this whole thing. Makes me wonder what’ll happen when the _next_ box gets here…”

 

“ _What?!_ ” The Medic bristled, but the Heavy laughed, standing to pull the white cap from the Medic’s head. 

 

“He is joking,” the Heavy assured, placing one broad hand at the doctor’s hip. “There is no other box.”

 

“Well, thank heavens for _that_ ,” the Medic groused, allowing himself to be led to the bed, and folded into the embrace of his two lovers. For a while they just breathed together, soaking up each other’s warmth, and closeness.

 

“I think we’ll let _you_ choose the next one,” the Demoman said, mumbling into the Medic’s shoulder. 

 

The Medic harrumphed, and pulled the blanket up over their heads.

**Author's Note:**

> So, there you have it, Kingu! I’ve never done humiliation porn before, so I don’t know if this fits the bill, but you asked me for this MONTHS ago, so I hope it was worth the wait~! <3 <3 <3


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